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  Somehow, it had become a lot more bearable once Daria's brother moved in. They didn’t talk much, and they’d never even been in each other’s apartments. She’d invited him for dinner a couple of times – as a good neighbor, of course – but he’d politely turned her down. She figured he wasn’t interested, and kept her crush to herself.

  Now he was offering her coffee in that deep voice that made her insides wobble. She wasn't going to look a gift Russian – or free coffee – in the mouth, so she enjoyed that first sip maybe a little more than she normally would have.

  Rodion drew back abruptly and frowned. After a half-block of silent walking, he spoke abruptly, as if suddenly remembering he was supposed to make polite conversation.

  “You say you see things in what you weave. What did you see in this bag you made for yourself?”

  Carina paused, thinking about how to explain her gift to this man who ran mostly cool with occasional flashes of Texas heat. “It’s hard to see your own future. It’s always changing, with every decision you make, every person you meet. When I weave for other people, it’s sort of similar. I’ll see possibilities, depending on the paths they take. Then I take those possibilities, and interpret them symbolically. For instance, if I see someone who has always been a homebody in some exotic locale, there will be a great change in the weave, maybe an image of the new place, or just new colors, new textures.”

  “Yes, but what about this one?”

  The man was like a dog with a bone. He didn’t give up, which she supposed was a good thing for a Border Crossing agent.

  Each color, each pattern, each material, meant something to her. She’d made the base from an old pair of Wranglers that had been shredded one of the last times she did barrel racing. She’d cut her horse too far in and caught her jeans on the edge of one of the barrels, which resulted not only in ripped jeans, but with a long, uneven scar on her thigh. She’d still finished the race in third place, bleeding like a stuck hog down into her boot.

  The actual weave of the bag was made of various materials. Rags she’d torn from the remnants of old rodeo and concert t-shirts that had finally grown more holes than fabric. Pieces of quilts her family members had made, handed down and used until there was almost nothing left of them. Pockets were cut from scraps of tapestry she’d woven herself, inspired by visions that had come to her in dreams. The strap was made of the salvaged parts of a beautifully tooled bridle that had supposedly been worn by her great-great uncle’s horse, Widow-Maker.

  Each piece of the bag held a hint of hope, a drop of dreams. And when all the pieces came together, they told the story of her history, woven intricately with glimpses of a future even she couldn’t see clearly.

  She cradled the purse close to her. Her family had started out thinking of her art as a harmless indulgence, but it seemed the more successful she became, the less patient they were with her. Every time they called, they told her it was time to come back home and get her head on straight. Find a real career, work on the ranch, get married and make little norns. It hurt that she couldn’t have a conversation longer than five minutes before someone brought up what they thought she should be doing. Pointing out her success just made them more stubborn. She thought she was past letting other people tell her how she should feel about what she made. Apparently not.

  Until she felt his touch on the fingers she had wrapped tightly around the strap.

  “Hey. I like the bag. It’s colorful and bright. Like your hair. Like you.” He moved his hand, the one he couldn’t close all the way, up her arm until she felt him tug awkwardly at a curl. “Pretty.”

  She blinked back a sudden haze of tears at his kindness. “Thank you.”

  The cardboard carrier in Rodion's good left hand bobbed, and she let go of her tote to help steady it. She held the carrier with him and plucked her drink out – a Mocha de los Muertos, which was espresso, chocolate and steamed milk with faint hints of vanilla, cinnamon, orange, as well as a pinch of cayenne – then waited for him to grab his plain De-cappuccino. She told herself it wasn’t weird that she knew his favorite drink, too.

  Rodion reclaimed the holder and tossed it into a nearby recycling bin, and they continued walking as if that inexplicable moment had never happened.

  Fine. That was fine. She had to get her head straight anyway. She was happy with her life right now. She didn’t need to add a surly, wounded wizard to the mix or dredge up her old insecurities.

  She pasted on a smile she didn't really feel. "Daria and Katya and I are getting together tonight at Howler's. Would you like to come?"

  He started to shake his head, but she hung in there. "Trick's back from his latest gig, and he's bringing his guitar. At least with both of you there, neither one will be lost in a sea of estrogen."

  "I'll think about it."

  They had reached the front door of the house, and Rodion pushed the door open and stood to the side to hold it for her.

  "Thank you. I really hope you'll come out with us." There. She'd issued the invitation and she wouldn't push anymore.

  They headed up the main stairs together, both of them careful to step to the edges of the eighth step, which sounded like a dying cat's yowl if you stepped on it in the middle. His apartment was opposite hers on the second floor, splitting the house in half. If the house had been bigger, it would have been more spacious than it sounded, but with the hall between them, they were far enough apart that noises from either one of them didn't usually disturb the other.

  They parted at the top of the stairs, with him going left, and her to the right. But he paused. "I nearly forgot. Daria left something for you. She found a yarn she thought you’d like the last time she was in Nashville with Trick."

  Carina would have clapped her hands if she wasn't still holding her coffee. "Terrific! I've been looking for something unique for a three-dimensional project I’m doing."

  "Come on in. I'll get it for you," he said, and they stopped in front of his door while he retrieved his key. And dropped it.

  Their eyes met, and she could read the frustration on his face as he clenched his jaw.

  "Would you hold my coffee for me?" she asked quietly, treading carefully on the line between helping and intruding.

  His square jaw flexed once before he nodded, staring straight ahead, refusing to meet her eyes. She arranged her almost empty mocha in his good hand, then bent to grab the key. She wobbled a little and put her hand on the door to steady herself as she rose, but the door didn't stay closed. It flew open under her fingers as if blown by a hurricane.

  Foul, malevolent energy, so intense it took her breath away, replaced the air in her lungs with the blight of toxic gas. The force of the magic shoved her back, knocking her off her feet and into the opposite wall.

  Something stalked her as she lay helpless on the floor. Something born of hellfire and the icy cruelty of death. An ill wind blew a cloak around him that hid his features – all but his eyes, which glowed a venomous green.

  He reached out to her with filthy hands, encrusted with dirt, thick black lines embedded under his broken nails like dried blood. One hand wrapped around her throat, and the other squeezed her upper arm until she thought her bones would be crushed in its grip. Symbols lit up on its skin and snaked down toward her like rivers of foul blood. The sigils poured into her arm, burning their way under her skin where she could feel them writhing in her flesh.

  Carina tried to scream, but she couldn't draw in enough breath to make a sound. Every time she sucked in the poisoned air, she choked out pain. It hurt to die like this, her arm and chest and head on fire from the inside, boiling her blood, burning her alive.

  Abruptly, the pressure on her body eased as if someone had shoved a boulder off of her, and fresh, clean air flowed down her throat as she coughed out the filth that had been clogging her lungs.

  She could see Rodion pushing the evil thing away, holding before him a glimmering shield of light that drove the shrieking monster back step by step.


  The thing stopped and stared unblinking at both of them. Its mouth opened, but its lips never moved as a voice came forth like a recording.

  “Rodion Czernovitch. You took my nephew from me, the only son of my dead brother. And so I shall take from you. This woman will die if you do not return to me the shards of Gebil.”

  “I have nothing for you, Nazar. I do not possess what you seek.”

  “They are small, buried deep inside you where no one can see them, but they are there. Bring them to me, or she dies under the proklyat’ye smerti.”

  A foul word escaped Rodion. One that she’d been thinking anyway, so they were on the same wavelength.

  “Where do I find you?”

  “Under the fast running blood of the earth lies the key

  Behind the howling wind stands the door

  In the consuming fire burns the heart of one who does not bow to Death.”

  “When I complete the quest, the curse will be broken?”

  The creature’s eyes glowed brighter. “If you complete the quest, it will.”

  “Then be ready.” Rodion’s sword of light, gleaming brilliant and sharp, pushed out from his hand, and the thing disintegrated into dust.

  Only then did he collapse next to her.

  Carina curled her body into his, there on the floor, her head tucked down by his hard abs, and coughed until she thought her throat would bleed.

  He bent himself around her, surrounding her, protecting her while she pulled life back into herself with every racking breath. He folded his arms around her ribs and gently stroked, soothing away the pain with his hands and murmured Russian words. Too exhausted to cry, she simply lay there and let him hold her.

  Her words burned in her throat when she finally asked, "What was that?"

  "I don't know." His breath was warm on her spine, his hand hot on her side where it rested now that she was better. "Don't speak yet. Let's get you somewhere safe."

  Slowly, like an old man, he came to his knees. He reached out to help her, and when she wavered, he braced her against his shoulder, a bulwark of strength rising beside her.

  Twined together like kudzu, they limped across the hall to her apartment.

  Chapter Three

  “Key?” he asked, and it was an effort to get the word out.

  “In my pocket.”

  Perfect. He just needed to get his hands inside the sleek, lavender jeans she wore rolled up to mid-calf. Propping her up against him with his weak arm, he delved into her front pocket and thought very fixedly about baseball.

  After a moment of wishing that everything about this situation was different, he found the key, hung onto it better than he had his own, and unlocked her door, then led her inside and helped her onto the couch.

  “Are you all right?” She seemed a little pale, but he didn’t see blood anywhere, although her right shoulder was bright red. “Here, let me see.”

  She flinched, but relaxed when he gentled his touch. A band of bruises was already forming in the shape of the monster’s hand.

  “Can you move your arm, your elbow, your hand?”

  They went through the motions of first aid until he concluded. “I don’t think the bones are broken, but I can take you to the ER if you like.”

  “No, I think you’re right. I just hope whatever that thing poured into me doesn’t make my arm turn green and fall off.”

  “What? It poured something into you?”

  She jumped a little at his tone, and pulled on her arm. He let go reluctantly. She was so much smaller than he was. It really was amazing that the golem hadn’t crushed her in its grip.

  “Yeah. Light, but not… good light, you know? There were sigils on its arms and they poured into me.”

  Rodion cursed again.

  The proklyat’ye smerti. A death curse. And if it had been cast with magical symbols, as Carina said, it was going to be extraordinarily difficult to remove.

  Even as he thought it, a shadow moved on her arm. A dark gray tendril began to grow, swirling like the ink of a beautiful, poisonous tattoo over her pale skin.

  “That can’t be good.”

  Her light words were tight with fear. Fear he couldn’t put to rest without lying to her, and he wouldn’t do that.

  “It’s not great.”

  “Is it fixable?”

  He hesitated and felt her muscles tense under his hand. “It is, but it’s not easy.”

  “I didn’t think it would be. What is it, anyway? What was all that about?”

  Rodion blew out a deep breath. “Let me get a cloth and clean off the dirt, and I’ll tell you about it.”

  Her kitchen was clean, but cluttered with dishes and pans in no order he could figure out. But he filled a bowl with warm water and soap, then sat down next to her with a dishcloth.

  She had pushed up the torn sleeve of her shirt and was trying to see the mark.

  “At least I’ll finally have that tattoo I’ve been thinking about.”

  He didn’t know how she did it. How she maintained anything like a sense of humor in the face of such danger. His own sense of humor, already dark, had disappeared completely after his injury.

  “I don’t think this is the kind of ink you really want,” he answered. He didn’t have anything against tattoos, but he didn’t like these marks of pain on her beautiful skin. He cleaned the dirt off her arm, using the bowl to catch the small rivulets of water stained red with the local clay.

  The cursed swirl remained.

  She sat silent while he washed her. When he was finished, patting her arm dry as gently as he could with another cloth, she asked, “So what was that thing?”

  “That was a golem.”

  “A what, now?” Her eyebrows were raised in question.

  “It’s like a giant remote control doll. You create it from clay and mud, and you can send it out to do your bidding.”

  “Your bidding, like killing people?”

  “If that’s what you ask it to do. It’s actually an old Jewish legend. A rabbi could make one for the protection of a village or a town against pogroms or plagues. But even the ones that protected could go wrong and destroy what they were supposed to guard.”

  “Is that what happened here? A good rabbi gone wrong?”

  He made a derisive sound in his throat. “I know who made this golem, and Nazar Adron is no rabbi. His ancestors used to ride out for pogroms for fun. But any kind of magic, from any source, can be corrupted.”

  The man who had sliced open Rodion’s arm was Burian Zelitch, Nazar’s slimy nephew – one of the dark fae who were manufacturing and transporting Cold Pill, a drug that only affected other supernatural creatures. The name was an anglicization of the Russian words, koldunya pyl’, which meant “magic dust.” Rodion and his squad in the Border Crossing Patrol had finally gotten good intelligence on where the Cold Pill pipeline was coming through the border in Volshev, and they’d intercepted the gang as they tried to bring in a new shipment.

  Burian – young, skinny, and vicious – had come out of the darkness beyond the Trinity River, crossing the border between the Rus fae world and the mortal world. He and his crew hadn’t realized they’d been found out until they were all firmly on mortal ground. Trapped between the BCP and the river, they’d fought like cornered rats.

  Rather than use a gun, Burian had pulled the great sword out of a scabbard hidden by magic, and started swinging it. BCP officers were allowed to carry a traditional shashka, a Circassian single-edged, curved saber, although Rodion was one of the few who habitually wore it. It came in handier than was expected, but few agents were trained with a sword anymore.

  Burian certainly hadn’t been. More than once, he’d nearly cut off his own feet with the sword that was more than half his height. But more than once, he’d also come close to cutting off Rodion’s head.

  Rodion was too busy defending himself at the time to realize that the sword was doing most of the work, hauling Burian’s scrawny body to and fro as it defended itself
. But even the best swordsman can be unlucky. And even the best sword needs an experienced arm to wield it.

  The moment Rodion was able to slip inside Burian’s guard, the edge of the massive blade sliced deep into Rodion’s upper right arm, cutting down to the bone. The pain and shock were so great that Rodion, who had only intended to disarm the young man, ended up stabbing his own shashka straight through Burian’s heart. He died instantly.

  And now his warlock uncle Nazar wanted to take revenge for Burian’s death by killing an innocent.

  Rodion wasn’t going to let it happen. And he certainly wasn’t going to let it take Carina.

  “So what’s our next step?”

  He snorted. “There is no our next step. You stay here, out of harm’s way, and I’ll take care of this.”

  Absolute stillness met his pronouncement, like the moment before lightning strikes. Very carefully, he met her gaze. No longer a warm and merry green, her eyes were now the color of sea ice, and he could see icebergs dead ahead.

  “I know we’re not close, Rodion, but you can take your macho man, misogynistic, moronic pronouncements and shove ‘em right up your –”

  The knock on the door derailed her just enough that he could interrupt.

  “What did I say?”

  Her mouth dropped open. “Seriously? You just told me to stay put while you wander off to find some dark wizard and get zapped, while I wait at home like I’m some helpless damsel, and you can’t figure out why I’m angry?”

  “Oh no, I get it now.” He stood to pace, and let go of the tight hold he tried to keep on the anger that sometimes felt too big to control. “You just can’t wait to go out there and get killed. I can shove your corpse into that giant bag and bring it home for your family. I bet they’ll love that!”

  She stepped up to him and kept right on going, meeting him temper for temper, her Texas twang deepening with every word. “Oh yeah? Well, if I go with you and you die, at least I’ll be smart enough to call Bubba so he can haul your carcass back to town!”